


chord progressions

by bellygunnr



Series: take a left down memory lane onto calhoun street [1]
Category: Half-Life
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Injuries, Multiple Drabbles, Mute Gordon Freeman, Prompts and Requests, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellygunnr/pseuds/bellygunnr
Summary: Music elicits an emotional response, regardless if we want it to or not.[This is a collection of requests I've written for on my writing blog. Feel free to do so in the comments. Tags will be added in each chapter summary.]1: Barney has a good cry.2: Marriage Proposal.3: They mourn another disappearance.4: Combine discovers Barney.5: Gordon is ill.6: Gordon hides his injuries.
Relationships: Barney Calhoun/Gordon Freeman
Series: take a left down memory lane onto calhoun street [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773649
Comments: 5
Kudos: 204





	1. midwestern alien

**Author's Note:**

> huh. probably not the best thing to post during pride month but i've had a helluva start to mine anyway. this was a writing prompt from CosmicWoods. took some liberties with it, sorry!

The Sword of Damocles finally fell down one night. It was a Wednesday, closer to 7pm than 6pm, and the music playing over the stereo in Gordon's dorm hit just the right chord progression to elicit a wanton, unbidden emotional response. He tried his best to stop it, but the low, keening _whine_ that eked out from his throat was audible and a punch to the gut. He bit onto the flesh of his own hand, clasped tightly around his mouth, to further quell the sudden outburst.

But the tears spilled, too many rapid beads of heat and salt to pass off. Barney hunched in on himself, not daring to look around, but strong hands found his backside anyway.

 _Why am I crying?_ he asks himself.

He was... stressed. He's always stressed, trying to keep up with the demands of Black Mesa. Trying to parry the inane, disgusting commentary of his own team. Trying to _bend_ and not _break_ under the crushing weight of finally accepting himself, dating a man, and wondering why he can still hear the chorus of WRONG from deep within his bones.

He thought himself resilient, but so was his grandpa when he was a boy, or the towering oak tree in his backyard; resilience let more insidious things crawl inside. Resilience allowed for unseen, unheard suffering and death. Even sturdy bridges fell to micro-fractures and undercarriage strain eventually.

Strong hands kneaded inexpertly into his muscles. A deep rasping sound was a constant hum in his right ear. Gordon, doing his best to vocalize. He vocalized a lot for a man of silence, really-- chirps, growls, emotional responses.

"Sorry," Barney chokes out, lifting his head from between his knees. "I just... holy shit. God, I don't know what came over me."

Strong hands slide down his sides and loop around his waist. Barney sobs again as he's enveloped by Gordon, locked up in the embrace of the much taller man.

But, like this, Gordon can sign, so he tries to read his words.

"It's okay to cry. Doesn't matter what for."

But Barney wants to tell him what for, somewhere deep inside. He lets his head loll into the dip of Gordon's clavicle, nose pressed into his neck, breaths coming in uneven bursts. Safety, here.

"S'just your average shit, Gordon. I was raised in some shit hole in the ground in Missouri. Bein' anythin' but straight or religious led to peer-sanctioned..."

He trails off, hugging himself. Gordon holds him even tighter.

"Thought I could get away with it. Accept myself, but my brain- my body- s'like, fuck, Doc, you know?"

"I know," Gordon admits, hands trembling slightly. 

"I'm sorry," he says, voice heavy, but he lets his mouth run. "Y'know, I had a girl once. Her name was Lauren. Last I heard she was goin' to, uh, Harvard or somethin'. We left on good terms, at least-- she accepted me real quick. Turns out it's real hard to ah, pretend you're somethin' you're not."

A comforting squeeze around his middle. He laughs, somewhat bitterly. Gordon already knew what it was like to pretend-- what was Barney doing trying to vent to him? This was an exercise in worse-than-useless indulgence. His next intake comes in on a sniffle, then another, too close to another round of tears for him to be comfortable. He twists himself around, fixes himself real comfortable-like in Gordon's lap, and heaves a shuddering sigh. This thing-- whatever it was-- wouldn't happen again. He won't let it.

Gordon's looking at him with a gentle expression, green eyes lidded with a quiet determination. Barney's relieved to see no concern or pity there, just some worry, maybe, and an intense resolve. He's the embodiment of patience. Wisdom, even, if the beard was any scruffier and wasn't a goatee. And if there weren't ugly tear stains discoloring his shirt along the shoulder and chest, temporary evidence of what had transpired. He keeps his arms curled around Barney's waist, a loose, easily-broken hold if Barney so chose to flee.

And Barney didn't want to flee. Not really. So what if he grew up alone and isolated, distant from any peers or adults that might have accepted him? He fought to get to this point. He forged his own way to his own worth. So what if some errant, sleepy-time madness tried to burrow deep holes into his psyche and undermine everything he built for himself? His own self-acceptance wasn't superficial or a lie. And he still wouldn't change anything about himself.

"Looks like I got your shirt wet, Gord," he says thickly, grinning lopsidedly. 

"Doesn't matter," Gordon says quickly, pressing a kiss to Barney's cheek. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah," he sighs, pressing his forehead against Gordon's. "I am. Thanks."


	2. old world blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An engagement ring, through the fire and the flames.

Marriage, in the traditional sense, was an Old World thing. Something people looked forward to, built up to, anticipated with eagerness and enthusiasm. Spent money on. Invited friends to. Made noise about.

Now, marriage was merely a concept, for those who remembered. Most did, and some couples were still married, their relationships made stronger for the hell it was put through. Others dissolved quickly, or broke down into fights. Communication became secondhand priority when everyday, your life was on the line.

Barney thinks about this as he stares down a simplistic gold band half-buried in the rubble of an old apartment. It belonged to someone, once. It meant something, once. He tenses as he hears something crunch down behind him.

He turns, a weapon ready--

but it’s only Gordon, clad in his HEV, trying not to knock anything down. It wasn’t that he was clumsy, it was that peace made him loose, somewhat confused. That was alright.

It did the same to Barney.

“I found somethin’, Gord,” he says, pointing at the ground.

Gordon approaches, his hands finding Barney’s shoulders. He becomes a reassuring weight leaned against his backside.

“A ring. Engagement, you think?” 

“Maybe,” Gordon says, signing. “It’s not for us.”

“Mm... But we should get married, don’t ya think?”

Barney cranes his neck back, looking up at Gordon. The man’s expression was surprised, mouth parted, but then it hardens and darkens.

“We can’t let anyone know,” Gordon warns. _If you get hurt..._

“No one can know about us anyway. What’s the difference, Gordon?”

A considering look, a furrowing of the brow. Barney reaches up to card his fingers through Gordon’s short, scruffy hair. 

“We’re already married,” Gordon signs decisively. “So it’s fine.”

Barney makes a noise, stuffs it down. They already were?

“Good. That’s how I like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from an Anonymous ask on tumblr. people seemed to really like it.


	3. the alyx vance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're all hit by Alyx's disappearance, but Barney's not expected to break.

Barney knew his luck would run out eventually. He had been far too lucky during the Incident and all the years following it. His humanity, in tact, if battered, and body mostly whole. Friends alive and a fighting chance, hope, to keep going. A family, though not related to him by any means.

Very few could say the same. 

So it goes that he was lucky, and those who are lucky have it run out in spectacular ways. Death was far too kind-- removed off the docket, replaced with something crueler. The Combine made sure to that. Death was a mercy nowadays. Not something to dread.

He lets his head fall against Gordon’s shoulder. It’s bony, thin. Always has been, hiding the muscle and bulk. He sighs as long, delicate fingers card through his hair. Messy, dirty. Too much had been happening to take care of it. He was sorry to say that when Alyx disappeared, so did his spirit.

Everyone felt the loss of Alyx. Gordon, in a peculiar, visceral kind of way. Barney felt like he had lost the last of his family. She had grew up before his eyes, after all. And now she was gone.

Where?

Alive, he’s been reassured. But where?

Gordon pulls him into a tight hug. Big man, broad shoulders, limbs still awkward despite being long past boyhood. Barney’s throat burns and swells as he chokes back a sob, bites down on that too. A gentle kiss pressed to the top of his head finally cracks his withering resolve.

Barney dissolves into broken, loud, unabated sobs as Gordon holds him, a bespectacled guardian for the knight who no longer could be one.


	4. located

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Character death, gunfire, drinking.

The way back home is a long one, always has been. A mess of canals and subways and broken city streets, always too choked up by Combine for comfort. Soaked boots and stained clothes by the time you’re past the first checkpoint, maybe an open gash by the time you’re halfway. Bullets spent on alien flora when local gasoline cans are all fresh out. But by now, all of that is routine.

And by now, Barney’s tired. His boots echo loudly, carelessly, off the concrete walls. Already he can see the gleam of a scope in the distance, just far enough away to be Resistance and not Combine. His plastic mask bumps against his hip as he meanders down the tunnel. He’s real tired. It’s been a long week.

“Maurice,” he says as greeting, offering the man a wide grin, but it’s mostly bared teeth. “Got anything to drink?”

“Calhoun! Christ, you gave us a hell of a scare. You look like shit. Do you need to rest here for the night?” Maurice sputters, snapping his rifle down to drag together some mouse-eaten accommodations. “I’ve got the usual, you know. Vodka, gin. Hard to get anything else ‘round here!”

Barney laughs, hoarse but hearty. He lets himself collapse onto the first cushion offered, arms folding onto the chopped-up pallet serving as a table. The wood’s texture is hidden by the thick fabric of his Metrocop gear. 

“Sorry for the scare, guys. I’ll take whatever you give me,” he says amicably. “Things been clear here?”

“Aside from the usual barnacle or headcrab, it has. Pretty strange that the Combine’s been so quiet…” Maurice says, placing a warm bottle of clear alcohol into Barney’s lap. He then sits across from the man, still keeping an eye on the tunnel.

“What’s all this rack– shoot, Barney! You didn’t say you were comin’ by!” 

Another Resistance member steps out from the depths of the checkpoint, Maurice’s counterpart– Dmitri, if Barney’s memory served him right. He raises his bottle to the other man before popping the cap and taking a burning sip. It wasn’t his preferred, but he wasn’t looking to take it easy.

He just wanted to forget. He wanted it to hurt.

“Kinda defeats the point, y’know,” Barney says, chuckling. “But I don’t… “

He takes another sip, a cold chill racing down his spine. He hadn’t heard anything from the Combine. His network of Metrocop intel had also been worryingly silent. 

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what that meant.

Barney inhales, then exhales real slow. He flicks his eyes back to Maurice and Dmitri, both of whom have paused to stare at him. How much had he let show? Did he look scared, or worried? That wouldn’t do. He had a reputation to uphold.

“Might mean somethin’ big’s goin’ on,” he mumbles, gaze skittering away. “You said it’s been clear here?”

“Y- yeah,” Dimitri says. “Maybe it’s because Freeman’s back? They’ve got to focus elsewhere. I hear the other routes have been uh, freed up too.”

Dammit. Barney shakes the bottle just to see how much he’s drank, then sets the glass down. Anxiety in the others. Maybe he should beat it out of here. No good. Maybe he has to backtrack, go back to the Combine and sign up for a few more weeks worth of shifts. Maybe he needs to– maybe, maybe, paths and options, all dead ends. 

“You both are doin’ great. I’m gonna keep headin’ off home, so thanks for the drink, Maurice,” Barney says abruptly. He groans as he climbs to his feet, armor pieces digging deep into his skin. “I’ll see y’all ‘round, got it?”

With that, Calhoun moves past the checkpoint, and on into the city. 

It’s there that he makes his mistake. 

The robotic, harsh crackling of a Combine mask whispers beneath the ringing of his right ear. _Barney Calhoun, located._

One, two, three _fourfivesix_ — all bullets on mark. Barney goes down with a bared-teeth smile.


	5. overhead lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gordon gets migraines sometimes, but work doesn't wait. Barney helps.
> 
> ie: vague illness here

A migraine was not enough to stop him from going into work. The pain was concentrated in his right temple, intense and aching, making the searing overhead lights of Sector C blurry and uneven. It was a wonder how he even got past the door, though the muscle memory of autopilot could let a man do anything.

His footsteps echoed unnaturally loudly off the smooth tile as he forces his way into his office. The world sways out from beneath him as he sits down, dizziness overtaking him in one fell swoop. He white-knuckles the edge of his desk, breathing fast and shallow. Maybe this was more than a migraine. Maybe he was genuinely sick. 

Maybe he had three papers due tomorrow that couldn’t afford to wait. 

Maybe, as he got the papers free from their folder prison, hands shaking, he finds that staring at the tiny text of his labels is far too much. The effort earns him stabs of pain in his skull, eliciting a soft whimper. Gordon folds himself over his desk, gripping his head. To that end, he doesn’t notice or hear his office door squeaking open, or the heavy footfalls of one notorious Security guard. He barely registers a hand gently resting on his shoulder. 

"Awh, Dr. Freeman. I almost didn’t believe it when she told me, but you really are sick, aren’t you?“ Barney says from above, his tone worried. "You shouldn’t be in." 

He looks up blearily, only to wince at the overhead lights. The next moment, they go dark altogether. That… was much better, actually. He goes slack into– into Barney’s side apparently, because whatever he landed on was softer than the desk. 

"Don’t go conkin’ your head, now. Come on, I’ll cover for ya.”


	6. lover, in some circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: injury, blood, vague first aid
> 
> hiding an injury

You were bound to fuck up eventually. You’ve been nursing a deep slash on your right side for hours now, the wound mostly concealed by the darkness, but now it’s bright and the action is slowing down. You keep a tight grip on your weapons just to feel something, but the pain in your side turning into deep, pulsing throbs down your hip. Barney calls for a break, a pit stop before finishing the route back to White Forest.

You know if you stop, you won’t move. 

“Let’s keep going. We can rest at- home,” you say, resolutely keeping on your feet. You avoid eye contact with Barney, body angled.

“We’ve been on foot for a long time, Gord. And we’ve been dealing with Stalkers and Combine all night… You sure?” Barney approaches you, a crunch of gravel and dirt beneath steel-toed boots. 

“Let’s go,” you say shortly, beckoning him forward.

At least you’ve stopped bleeding. The wound still hurts, though.

-

White Forest is visible on the dawn-grey horizon by the time anyone speaks again. You barely register it, eyes fixed on the towers and hills ahead. It’s only until Barney jostles your shoulder that you react, rounding on him with a grunt.

“You’ve been bleedin’,” Barney says bluntly. “I noticed it awhile back.”

You stare at him. Your glasses sit low on your nose, slicked with sweat. There’s many things to consider here.

Barney is your close friend. Lover, even, in some circles of the world. It stands to reason that he can read you like a book, and knows when to push or pull or back off. You were, admittedly, stupid for thinking you could get anything past him.

“It’s an old wound,” you say instead, wincing as your sign pulls on the gash. “Home.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Barney sighs.

-

Barney pries apart the HEV suit’s clasps. The orange plating drops away or loosens up to be slid off, which you aid with, hands shaking. You nearly collapse, power leaving the suit’s underskin and robbing you of all support. Maybe you had been going too long. Maybe you were no longer being watched, so the anxiety and dread of failing everyone’s expectations could no longer keep you going. Whatever it was, Barney was there to catch you.

“Easy, big guy,” Barney says, easing you onto his broad shoulders. “Here, this looks soft.”

Of course it was soft. You had made the weird mattress-nest yourself last week. It was right against the HEV’s charging pod, hitting two birds with one stone– absolving you of anxiety and keeping you close to action, should you be called for it. Everyone had given you shit for it.

But it was soft, so you never cared. You go boneless on it as Barney lowers you into the mass of ratty blankets.

“I’ve got a pack here, so…” Barney murmurs, pulling out his canteen and a makeshift first-aid kit. You roll over, arms above your head, gash exposed. Did it need stitches? 

“Don’t fall asleep on me, big guy,” Barney warns. 

The wound stings as Barney starts to wash it clean, dried blood coming away in flaky stripes. Luckily, the thing has since scabbed over, and doesn’t need reopening for the sake of removing grit or grime. You set your glasses aside, yawning. 

“I love you,” you say, finger-spelling. “Barney.”

“I love you too, Gordon,” he says gently, eyes softening.


	7. good night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a reprieve and release from it all

barney had gotten good at finding his own spaces over the years, so it was no wonder that he found one now– a forgotten little nook in the heart of white forest, a room forgotten by time and disaster. it was moth-eaten and dusty and devoid of natural light, but that was fine. the sunken sofa was still far softer than the floor.

barney allows himself to relax into the deflated cushions, lingering pain stinging anew as the tension releases. maybe he stretches out his legs and hisses at the resulting twinges– his left leg was used and abused, a mass of scar tissue and poorly healed bone after an accident. its dull ache was now an acute sting, but he merely drums his fingers over the cap.

there were bigger things to worry about. like gordon, who had followed him in and was now nestled beside him, scrawny without the HEV. yet they bore matching bruises and scrapes, perhaps a testament to how fierce the fighting was. how should an armoured man be injured, after all?

trick question. he’d learned long ago that invincibility was the wrong thing to strive for. it was better to delay and redirect. the CP armor itself– the fabric and harness of which still digging into his torso– distributed impact about two times before exhausting its usefulness.

it takes him a long time to register that he’s yanking at his own clothing, all blunt nails and violence. it takes Gordon gently rapping his knuckles across the back of his hand, a gentle shake of the shoulder. he sucks in a breath and stares unsteadily ahead.

“Out,” is all he can say, and it’s mostly a snarl.

he leans back, unhelpful, as Gordon simply starts to paw at the uniform, stripping apart the bindings through will alone. he sobs with relief as the oppressive outfit is finally released– the jacket, collar, and vest, loosened and freed. he hums his gratitude, watching Gordon throw them all to the ground.

then Gordon attacks the belt and well, they can be pantsless together, it’s fine. Barney can swallow the pain of moving his legs and flexing his muscles. he sobs again upon seeing the uniform fully discarded; there would be no way in hell he’d put it back on.

“Thanks,” he says.

he rolls his gaze over, catching Gordon’s eye. he smiles at him with pinched laziness, no longer able to disguise how out of breath he is. in fact, he finds it’s now impossible to hide anything, with both of them laid bare to each other.

“Don’t look so sad, Gordon. At least we’re both alive,” Barney says, offering a crooked grin. “And a room all to ourselves. Been a long time.”

Gordon nods, but it’s listless. his eyes are purple with bruises and exhaustion, making him squint. a crosshatch of speed-healed tissue make an interesting pattern on his cheek– what could it be, Barney wonders. bullets and headcrabs and manhacks? same as them all.

same as them all, Barney thinks blithely. the One Free Man was as subject to death and injury as the rest of them.

another rap on the knuckles brings Barney back into awareness. he blinks at Gordon, eyebrows drawn inquisitively.

“You’re spacing out,” he signs, expression of deep worry. “Let’s try and rest.”

that sounds about right. Barney shrugs and nods, smile slipping. he watches Gordon stretch himself out to his full height, then promptly twist around, dropping his torso into Barney’s lap.

Barney rests his hands on Gordon’s chest as force of muscle memory. he folds them over one another and makes to lean back himself, hissing with the effort. there was pain in everything– but that was fine.

he could handle it. he could handle this.

the sofa creaks as Gordon further rearranges himself. he drops his head down atop Barney’s bare chest, hands grasping the sides of his stomach. he rubs the soft flesh with tiny, circular kneads of his thumb.

Barney says nothing. he lets his head drop back onto the sofa’s arm, gaze unfocused. he cradles Gordon’s head in his hands, distracting himself with his auburn hair, still curly and soft after all these years. he tries not to think too hard about anything at all.

good night, one of them says.

sleep steals Barney fast.


End file.
